


The Trials Of Sym'ir

by Aaron_The_8th_Demon



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Chaos, Chaos Headcanon, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Child Soldiers, Demons, Gen, Graphic Description, Original Chaos Warband, POV Child, Parent Death, Recruitment, Slavery, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-08-15 15:05:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8061130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaron_The_8th_Demon/pseuds/Aaron_The_8th_Demon
Summary: Through psychic sorcery and the powers of the cult of Tzeentch, a transgender child becomes a candidate to become an Apostles of Death Chaos Space Marine.





	1. The Apprentice

**It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.**

**Yet even in this deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomicanm the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in His name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.**

**To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruelest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace among the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.**

* * *

 

As far back as Siyim could remember, there had always been pain.

He had always been hungry. Before his mother had died, she had usually gone hungry too, giving what little food she could find to him. But those times had been fairly unusual. Most of the time, there was no food at all. His earliest memories of himself were of his stomach being swollen from starvation. He had always been cold, too. Wrapped in tattered rags and sleeping on the rusted metal floor, when he’d been able to fall asleep at all, he often woke up not being able to feel his toes. It hurt to be cold.

The worst, though, was the pain he could hear.

Siyim didn’t know why, but other people’s thoughts would often come crashing into his brain. Since he was mostly around other humans, he usually picked up on their mental anguish, so strong it almost drowned out his own. They were always cold and hungry like him, but often also suffered infections, wounds, broken bones or traumatic memories. Sometimes the person was so badly injured that the only thought he picked up was “By the Gods it hurts” or “Somebody please kill me.”

There was only one thing more horrible than these thoughts. And that was the thoughts of the Chaos Space Marines.

Every so often, one of the Apostles of Death would enter their living/working space, their thoughts loudly screaming over anything else Siyim could feel or hear. It was almost always something about fresh meat, and then the warrior would drag someone away and Siyim would never see them again. He hated the Chaos Marines; his mother had approached one to ask for food that she could give to him, and the marine had only laughed and beaten her to death on the spot.

Siyim was thinking about this as he pushed an old shred of cloth over a bolter component. An apprentice was standing in the corner observing them, making sure they were being thorough cleaning the parts of a weapon too heavy for any of them to lift when it was whole.

“Don’t look at me, slave!” the apprentice hissed, the servos in his power armour hissing as he shifted position to appear more threatening.

Siyim lowered his eyes back to the firing pin. He felt angry at the young Chaos Marine, but after watching his mother killed by one just for asking for food, he wasn’t stupid enough to act on his feelings. Siyim clenched his teeth, feeling even more frustrated that he couldn’t do anything about the apprentice putting him down.

With two strides that sounded off against the metal floor with massive clomps, the Apostle of Death was in front of Siyim, yanking him up to helmet level by his ragged shirt. The apprentice growled threateningly through the speaker in his mouth grille.

 _“Tell me why you’re thinking about attacking me, little girl,”_ the Apostle of Death spat.

Siyim felt scared for sure, but more than that, he just felt even angrier. Why did _everyone_ always think he was a girl? He knew he was a boy, but nobody else did.

“I HATE YOU!” Siyim screamed, unable to stop himself. He began pounding his small, skeletal fists on the plated forearm gripping him. “I HATE YOU! I HOPE YOU GET EATEN BY RATS!”

That was one of the worst things he could imagine happening to someone - he’d heard of people being devoured by the grimy rodents if they were too weak or sick to fend them off. So that made it even more surprising when a booming laugh came from the apprentice’s mouth grille. When the Chaos Marine ceased in his outburst of hysterics, Siyim could hear a faint clicking sound coming from the helmet before he was tossed onto the floor. He yelped as he landed on his back, feeling pain shoot down his spine. He knew he was probably about to be killed.

“What do you have to say for yourself, girl?” the apprentice demanded, looming over him.

“I’m not a girl!” he howled. “I’m a boy! Everyone thinks I’m a girl, but I’m not! I’m really a boy!”

The Chaos Marine snorted, and as the armoured hand reached down Siyim realized he was about to get choked. Inexplicably, though, he was scooped up roughly and held under the apprentice’s arm. At that moment a Khorne Havoc appeared in the chamber.

“Wait here, Grozm,” the apprentice hissed. “I shan't be long.”

“AFFIRMATIVE!” Grozm screamed, hefting his enormous heavy bolter. The ammo chain gave a metallic rattle at the motion. “AND IF THEY TRY ANYTHING I CAN EAT THEM?”

Siyim felt the annoyance flow off the apprentice in waves as well as ripples of his eye-roll.

“Why not?” the Chaos Marine muttered before carrying Siyim out of the room.


	2. The Daemon Fang

Xader was annoyed when the apprentice Gadrich walked into his quarters/office. He’d only been at this job for a standard year, so he hadn’t entirely worked out his methods yet. He was leaning more and more towards instituting a ban on members of the Cult of Tzeentch being able to enter whenever they wanted. They gave him a massive headache in every sense of the word.

“What do you want?” Xader snapped, glaring at the other Chaos Marine.

“I’ve found a potential candidate, my lord.”

Xader spat acid on the floor at Gadrich’s feet. “The idea of _you_ accomplishing anything even _remotely useful_ is so ridiculous I don’t know if the appropriate response is to laugh or scream,” the berzerker growled, his hairless eyebrows coming together in a hostile expression.

“Well sir, if you started screaming, it wouldn’t help the stereotype of your kind that is already perpetuated by Grozm,” Gadrich replied cooly, which only served to further irritate him.

Xader growled, a rumbling avalanche deep in his chest.

“If I look at this recruit, will you get the hell out?” he demanded.

Gadrich didn’t reply, just cocked his head to one side, his expression hidden behind his battle helm. The Tzeentch Chaos Marine dropped the child on the floor and gave a light kick to shove the candidate forward. Xader got down on one knee and roughly pulled the child forward - and immediately hissed through his iron fangs.

“THIS IS A GIRL!” he bellowed, unclenching his ceramite fist and standing up. “YOU ARE A WORTHLESS INCOMPETENT!”

Gadrich yanked off his helmet, feline-like yellow eyes narrowed to slits. “For your information, this child’s aura and aethereal being do _not_ align to his body. Through a specific ritual and combined with a surgical procedure, we can grow a warrior out of him.”

Xader lunged forward and yanked Gadrich by his armour gorget until their noses were about six centimetres apart, pointing a single serrated claw at the apprentice’s right eye. He clenched his jaw and peeled back his pale lips to speak through his fangs.

_“Why should I risk my good standing with Kserdiek over your absurd delusions?”_

Gadrich met his glare evenly, looking absolutely unfazed. That was even more infuriating.

“Because this boy has a very strong psychic potential,” the apprentice answered, his tone nonchalant. “I could hear him reading the thoughts and emotions of everyone in the slave quarters, myself included. He would make an excellent marine if honed properly.”

Xader snorted a breath out his nose, lowering his butcher blades so that the tip of the index claw was just barely poking against Gadrich’s throat.

“In the interest of recruitment,” Xader sneered, “I’ll go along with this idiotic scheme. But if it goes awry in _any fashion,_ I’ll personally flense you and feed you to Kravos.”

Pushing Gadrich away in an aggressive motion, Xader gestured halfheartedly for the apprentice to restrain the child, scooping up the daemon fang in his right hand. His half-rusted armour joints screeched as he crouched down, watching Gadrich hold the child facedown on the floor.

“This will hurt you,” Xader began, indifferent to the candidate’s suffering. “I will tap the fang on either side of your arm until you are struck. The number you’re hit on determines the cult you will enter. That number will then be scarred into your back, and you will only be known as that number unless you graduate to the initiate stage.”

With this brief explanation given, Xader began hitting the point of the fang against the floor as rapidly as he could, keeping track in his head. Predictably, the fang struck the boy’s arm at number nine, eliciting a howl of anguish as anaemic blood began to flow from the emaciated flesh. The recruitment officer deftly tore off the boy’s shirt with one of his serrated claws before using the daemon fang to carve the number into the candidate’s back, drawing further screams of torment.

“From this point on, you have no name. You are just the number nine. You will answer to nothing else. You are no longer a slave, but you are still worthless unless you can prove otherwise. We do not expect you to live past tomorrow, and it’s up to you to show us we were wrong. If you die, we will laugh while it happens.” Xader burned the wounds shut, which made the boy squeal in between tortured sobs. “Get used to pain. It’s all you will know from now on. Now get out of my sight, human.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xader, the recruitment officer, is actually a character I've already written about in detail (though I stupidly deleted that story). He is one of the few intelligent and rational Khorne Berzerkers in the warband, and I enjoy writing about him because he's fun in his own way. We'll probably see more of him in this story and future shorts.


	3. The Nature of Tzeentch

Siyim was dragged along by his wrist up further corridors, still crying from the agony of his wounds. At least he was away from the scary Khorne Berzerker, but that was of little comfort. Every movement made him feel like the scorched slashes in his flesh were pulling back open again, and he could barely see where he was going because his eyes were blurred by tears.

Siyim could feel that the apprentice didn’t care about his pain. In fact, the neutral green color in the Chaos Marine’s thoughts showed that he didn’t care about Siyim except as the means to an end.

“If you continue to look at my thoughts, I will save everyone the effort and just kill you now,” the apprentice threatened, yanking Siyim several clumsy steps forward.

“I can’t help it,” Siyim whined, stumbling as he tried to get his balance back.

“Try,” the marine snapped, giving another yank. “If you are to survive in my cult, you _will_ learn to control your abilities. If you can’t, we’ll have no choice but to harvest you for meat.”

Still choking on tears, Siyim squeezed his eyes shut and tried as hard as he could to stop sensing the Chaos Marine’s mind. Instead, it felt like his mind exploded outward - he could suddenly feel the thoughts of everyone in the decks above and below him. They were all dark red and angry: _Blood! Blood! Blood! I must collect skulls for Khorne! Kill! Maim! Burn!_

The wave of enraged auras hit him so hard that he was thrown backwards several metres before crashing facedown on the grimy deck. The next thing he knew, he was laying on his back with something surprisingly soft and comfortable under him. How had that happened?

Slowly, his senses returned - the apprentice was standing a short distance away, but a new mind of someone far more powerful was also present. When he opened his eyes, he started to feel afraid again when his gaze hit the new Chaos Marine. Clad in armour the same shade of blue as the apprentice, a loose robe of dark purple shrouded most of his battle plate almost down to his feet. Rugged gloves of the same material covered his gauntlets, and around his waist was a thick chain with smaller chains dangling coloured stones and the bones of small animals. A ring of spikes crowned the black helmet over glowing eyes of green-tinged white.

 **+Siyim.+** The deep voice invaded his mind. **+My name is Burax, I’m the Sorcerer Lord of the Black Coven. As of this moment, you belong to** **_me_** **.+**

Siyim struggled to sit up, raising his torso on his elbows.

“I-” he started to say, but was immediately interrupted.

 **+STOP!+** Burax screamed, knocking him back onto the cushion. Pain exploded inside Siyim’s skull and he felt his nose start to gush blood. **+You must learn to speak with your mind, not your words. My assessment of your psychic prowess has told me you have great potential but no control.+**

Siyim wiped his nose and tried to concentrate. He snorted back more blood and stared directly at the sorcerer. He thought as hard as he could: **+I DON’T KNOW HOW!+**

Immediately, the sorcerer grunted in pain through his grille, clutching the faceplate of his helmet in his armoured palms. After a second he pulled it off his head, revealing skin black as ink with white tattoos of daemonic symbols marking his shaved scalp. Blood smeared his blue gauntlet as he, too, wiped his nose. Surprisingly, when the Chaos Marine lowered his arm, he was smiling. It wasn’t a nice smile.

**+Most excellent. With the proper training you will be a competent apprentice, like Gadrich.+**

The other Chaos Marine nodded impassively.

 **+I was trained by Valkshar before he became Chaos Lord,+** Gadrich informed them. **+He was a strong teacher… but Lord Burax should suit you well.+**

 **+Now…+** Burax hummed, his deep voice an intimidating purr, **+...there is a certain thing we must address before we can move forward.+**

Siyim knew what the Sorcerer Lord was going to say before he said it.

 **+Why do you have to make me into a** **_real_ ** **boy? I’m already a boy.+**

 **+Your corporeal form is, but your body is not,+** Burax pointed out. **+We must change your body before you can be a proper candidate. Psychic sorcery and a surgical procedure.+**

At this, Gadrich turned and paced to the back of the large chamber. Only now did Siyim study his surroundings - the room was so massive that the edges and corners were hidden by shadows. In the centre was a ring carved into the floor with nine statues on various points, evenly spaced from one another. He could feel their names in his mind: Aetaos’rau’keres, Gargatuloth, Magnus the Red, Ahriman, Kairos Fateweaver, Ix’thar’ganix, the Blue Scribes, Marabas, Sar’tir.

The statues were carved elaborately and in great detail out of grey stone. At first glance they appeared to be inanimate, but as he looked at them longer and longer he could see them moving.

Startled, Siyim lowered his eyes and saw that before each statue was a black triangle set into the floor. The one in front of Magnus the Red, however, was deep blue and looked almost liquid. In the middle of the ring of statues was a massive obelisk that reached to the ceiling, and every few seconds it could completely alter its shape. It was made from shiny black obsidian and just under the surface thin veins of gold pulsed and intertwined.

Before he could look around further, Gadrich returned, holding a steaming bowl and a spoon. Its contents seemed to be slightly-purplish black liquid with little green and white flecks floating in it, and in the centre was a small cube of meat. The bowl was pressed into his hands.

 **+Eat,+** Burax commanded.

He didn’t need to say it twice - Siyim was famished. He scooped up the meat in the spoon and swallowed it whole, then put the dish to his lips and drank all of the broth in three swallows. It was putrid and bitter and made him gag, but he forced himself to gulp down all of the slimy fluid. He felt it hit his stomach, and strangely the chamber began to feel more and more familiar, as though he’d been there thousands of times even though he knew he hadn’t.

The thoughts and words in his brain seemed worthless now, as though he was staring at some alien language he knew nothing of. Visually, he was losing his ability to understand the logic of their armour and robes; it just seemed superficial, unnecessary. It was only a series of confining and useless objects, and if they were meant to be harmed, it would be their destinies. Siyim found himself accepting the notion of death. It even seemed comforting, now.

Where the room had been silent before, he could suddenly feel the onset of a soft angelic chorus in his mind and all around him. He enjoyed it at first, but it began escalating, raising in volume until it was a deafening cacophony of monstrous daemons pounding in his ears until they reached his brain stem.

Siyim found himself sucked into a vortex of patterns, melting together and then withdrawing again in an endless cycle. In the swirling mass he could also see faces, his mother’s and other slaves he’d known. But gradually these, too, began to shift in an altogether different direction. He saw the visages of the creatures born into the realm of the Immaterium, sneering and laughing at him, growing more and more frightening with each passing image.

He began to feel the presence of a being far greater than himself, enveloping his soul until suddenly he was spat from its mouth in a gush of flames and blood. He found himself flying through a mass of impossibilities, feeling all the colours he’d ever seen and more racing past his skin. His eyes were filled with the scene of daemons devouring souls, and corporeal spirits screaming past him. They flailed their translucent claws, reaching to steal him and rend his body, but he was simply moving too fast.

Before he knew what was happening, Siyim dropped out of flight and careened wildly into the side of a massive heap of corpses and skeletons, some from people and some from monsters. The pain and shock rippled through his body as he made impact, and he instantly knew he was crippled. But yet somehow, he could still move as normal.

The beast he’d been spit from had followed him. It melted into his reality, a half-formed mass sliding from the carcasses until it morphed into a towering creature. Siyim would later question how he’d known this, but his instincts told him that this two-headed abomination was a Lord of Change named Kairos Fateweaver. Both pairs of eyes stared straight through him, burning holes in the core of his being. It didn’t use words, but concepts raked across his mind, scoring wounds inside of his skull.

Fateweaver explained to him that he was an interesting case of the nature of Tzeentch, a non-daemonic being who would ultimately change his physical form. But there was also an inexplicable dark veil in these concepts, chilling Siyim to his spine.

As he watched, the Greater Daemon and all of his surroundings began to swirl and melt, forming the beginnings of cohesive shapes. He could feel his logic and perceptions returning as he watched the abstract colours and feelings leaving him. Eventually the chamber he’d started out in swam back into focus, and the entire vision left him. Burax and Gadrich were standing in the places they’d been in before, watching him in silence.

 **+Stand up, boy,+** Burax commanded. **+Go to the monuments and show us which one you saw.+**

Siyim climbed to his feet and slowly approached the circle on shaking legs. He walked its circumference until he could pick out the statue of Fateweaver, and impulsively sat down on the adjacent triangle. He could still feel the daemon’s eyes boring into his soul.

 **+Interesting,+** Gadrich commented, but Siyim couldn’t read him to figure out why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know someone who's tripped on LSD in the past and asked them to describe the experience so that I could write this scene.


	4. Sym'ir

Sodvom peered at the objects in his enormous hands through half-closed lids. He could feel the cool glass of the beakers against the ceramite fused into his flesh, the bulbs of mutated tissue pulsing in excitement as the chemical smell coursed his olfactories. These experimental medical compounds would wreak untold havoc on his subjects, and he eagerly anticipated the results.

The corrupted armour encasing his form stretched and contracted organically with his movements - decades ago, so many he could no longer remember with any accuracy, he’d managed to surgically graft the armour of an Obliterator onto his flesh with much Slaaneshi sorcery and extensive modifications to his body and to the wargear in question. He was now physically crippled, but it was entirely worth the ability to grow weapons from his limbs at will.

The cooling fluid from the reactor backpack began to itch as it pulsed through his blood, and he looked up from his work, knowing that some pawn of Tzeentch was approaching. As if on cue, the Sorcerer Lord marched in dragging a small child by the back of his neck.

“Ah, Burax, I could feel you approaching by the annoying whine that got louder in my ears,” Sodvom sneered, cocking his head to one side. The end of his hair, put up in a topknot, swished against his neck. “I can only assume you’ve arrived to _meddle_ with my grand experiments for your own entertainment.”

“If I wished to be amused,” Burax retorted snidely, “I would disassemble you into atoms and reconstruct your body inside-out for the Berzerkers to feast upon in a mad frenzy.”

The two had a sordid past with each other. Recruited around the same time and with conniving and self-serving personalities that were so similar they could do nothing but inevitably clash, they had persistently tortured each other with little motive until the aggressive conflict became the reasoning in and of itself. Even after three and a half centuries, they were as spiteful towards each other as ever.

“You realize, of course, that I’m easily as learned in the black arts of Chaos as you,” Sodvom pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

Before Burax could spit something back in reply, Kravos and Xader marched in, their heavy red boots clomping on the ancient deck. Xader was by no means small, and neither was Burax, but Kravos easily dwarfed them both. Even in Obliterator armour, the Khornate Champion rivalled Sodvom in size. His bearlike visage curled into a menacing snarl as he shoved Burax into a wall with vicious force.

Xader, predictably, strode over to the Slaaneshi Chaos Marine with his Butcher’s Blades curled into an enormous black fist. Xader was the only creature in the galaxy Sodvom hated more than Burax, if only by virtue of their chosen patrons’ rivalry.

Last to enter the room was Grozm, of course, Xader’s idiot pet and easily one of the stupidest warriors to ever embarrass the warband. The Khornate Havoc marched in with his usual clueless grin, showing a mix of cracked teeth and artificial fangs and with his heavy bolter swinging in his hands.

“Candidate nine!” Xader bellowed, not even looking. “Climb onto a tablet and lie still. Your initiation into the Apostles of Death begins now.”

Sodvom glowered at the Khornate proxy. While Kravos was the Champion and led the Berzerkers in battle, in reality Xader was the one running the show. As the recruiting officer he had Kserdiek’s ear, and unofficially was the second-highest ranking marine under Kserdiek. For this, Sodvom could only resent him more.

“Curiously, I find myself utterly unmotivated to perform medical operations on your little hellspawn,” the surgical officer hissed, tossing in a rude phrase that encompassed the only four words he knew in the Khornate lexicon.

Kravos’ ursine roar silenced him immediately, forcing Sodvom to come to terms with the fact that he was powerless when there were three Berzerkers and only one of him. An instant later, however, a thought occurred to him.

“I must question why you’re invested in a candidate promised to the Changer of Ways, oh bloodsoaked one?”

“BECAUSE IF HE DIES, I GET THE SPLEEN!” Grozm yelled enthusiastically.

Sodvom, Burax and Xader all rolled their eyes in a rare moment of unity.

“Not you,” the Sorcerer Lord snapped. He turned to look at Sodvom. “Because, one of my more gifted apprentices has detected a sizeable portion of talent with this boy. Now… he has not completed any training and is not yet eligible for gene-seed implantation. Instead he requires a… unique transformation.”

For a moment, curiosity struck him through his irritation.

“Of what nature?”

Burax chuckled.

“Fateweaver approached him during his vision test in the Seer’s Chamber and we are… well… _invested_ in this case. Consulting the Black Coven following this, we have even renamed him in advance. Sym’ir, tell Sodvom what you said to Gadrich when he chose you.”

The candidate stepped forward, looking like a hare on the verge of being devoured by a pack of wolves. “Everyone always thinks I’m a girl… but I’m not. I’m a boy. You have to change my body.”

The surgical officer just stared for a moment, ultimately unable to stop himself from recoiling in a mixture of shock and disgust.

“You _must_ be _joking._ ” He gestured one clumsy arm, nearly as thick as the trunk of an oak in a demeaning motion. “You wish for me to waste my time and resources to make a _slave girl_ into an initiate? Truly, the warp has consumed the last of your sanity, Burax.”

Sodvom had barely a second to regret his words before the force of Sym’ir’s psychic might propelled him backwards into a slab. The surgical officer toppled into a heap on the floor.

 **+I’M NOT A GIRL!+** the candidate screamed, causing foul blood to gush from his nose and ears. **+CHANGE ME OR I’LL KILL YOU!+**

Clambering back to his feet with much more effort than it should have taken, Sodvom at last gave in with a nod.

“Alright. Restrain him while I make the preparations.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a trans guy, I really wish I could've done what this kid did when I was a ten year old...


	5. Through Five Years

“So… I fail to grasp the concept,” Sym’ir admitted, frowning at Fehram. “That obnoxious bastard was an initiate before I was born… why is he graduating with _us?_ Shouldn’t he at least be a Havoc by now?”

His acquaintance shrugged. A fellow initiate who completely lacked psychic talent, Fehram was doomed to become a Tzeentch Havoc for his entire existence, but was nonetheless the only member of the warband that Sym’ir was remotely close to. They were busily eating the leftover human meat that the Khornates refused to consume, occasionally glancing across the room at two other initiates, Vergerus and Luskar.

“Which one?” Fehram snorted in an attempt at humour. “The loyalist or the prissy bitch-boy? They’re _both_ obnoxious bastards in my book.”

“The loyalist,” Sym’ir smirked. “Although… yes. I fail to understand Luskar’s inability to graduate as well.”

“Well,” Fehram hummed, “Vergerus won’t accept his fate, and Luskar won’t come to terms with the fact that Vergerus needs to accept his fate. At least that’s how I gather. Khorase’vod is certainly displeased with them both over something.”

“Khorase’vod is displeased with everyone,” Sym’ir pointed out before taking a bite of the undercooked food. “I feel as though it has some connection to the subdivision champions not favouring them.”

“Andrios seems to favour Luskar,” the other initiate countered. “Besides, I would find it amusing beyond measure if a doomed future Khornate became another in a series of irritating Noise Marines.”

Sym’ir just raised a questioning eyebrow in response - he didn’t feel as though there was much time for amusement, even at the expense of marines he couldn’t stand, being normally consumed by his studies in the Guild of Black Knowledge. Fehram, having a much less complicated training regimen, enjoyed significantly more time on his hands to pay attention to the goings-on in the warband’s lowest ranks.

Sym’ir would have been more surprised when his compatriot suddenly fell silent if he hadn’t detected Vergerus’ angry eyes turn their way. This wouldn’t normally concern him, as he cared nothing for what others thought of him, but despite having been held back as an initiate for almost two decades Vergerus was one of the few Khornates who was almost as terrifying as Kravos. Most intriguingly, though, Vergerus chose to show his unwillingness to enter the Blood God’s fold by maintaining a relationship with a future Noise Marine through all of those 18 standard years.

“Don’t look! He’ll eat your face!” Fehram chortled under his breath.

Sym’ir didn’t even have the chance to roll his eyes at the stupidity of this comment before Vergerus bellowed and flew across the mess hall, careening into Fehram and beating the other initiate within a hair of death. Only as the future Khornate was drooling strings and throttling Fehram against the floor did Luskar and Sym’ir try to pry the two apart.

Vergerus was screaming his rage in the Khornate language as Luskar struggled to haul him back, while Sym’ir dragged his comrade away and fought the impulse to pull his combat blade from his belt to stab the other initiate in the kidney. Fehram coughed and spat blood while he hauled himself into a sitting position on the floor.

Sym’ir jabbed his open fingers at Vergerus: “ _Igazi emlilweni, imizwa ukufa!_ ”

The Khornate was launched backward at least ten metres, crashing through tables and spilling food across the floor. Several initiates howled with disgust as their meals were scattered, but most only stared as Vergerus writhed in agony with ropes of acidic saliva leaking from the corners of his mouth. Sym’ir never broke eye contact, intent on killing the other initiate painfully, but was incapacitated himself when Luskar hit him with a sonic blast.

At this, the entire mess erupted into a senseless brawl. Feeling his surgically enhanced organs starting to stem the internal bleeding already, Sym’ir sprang back to his feet and began firing curses left and right, just short of projecting beams of warp energy out of his knuckles.

A bellowing roar of “ENOUGH!” cut through the chaotic infighting, and no marine in his right mind would ever defy the owner of that voice.

Clad in full battle-plate with his power sword in hand, Khorase’vod’s red and black faceplate glared at them, carved to look like the snarling rage of a bloodletter daemon. By contrast to the initiates’ armour, which had been scraped bare of paint save for the left shoulder guard to symbolize that they were not true Chaos Marines yet, the Apostles of Death proxy officer stood out in the stereotypical triad of colours. His feet, left vambrace, belt and right leg were all burned black, while the trim, right arm, right fist and left elbow were chromatic red. For some reason he’d personally chosen to mark his armour this way, while the rest was the matte cerulean colour that was one of the hallmarks of the Apostles’ wargear. His eyes were obscured by lenses of a paler arctic blue colour, and once again Sym’ir could only speculate on the features hidden behind that ugly battle helm.

Slowly, shamefully, the initiates pulled away from one another and began restoring order to the mess without being ordered. After seeing many staples of Khorase’vod’s wrath, none of them were stupid enough not to obey him. Even on the cusp of being fully-fledged warriors, this monstrous soldier of Chaos struck terror into them.

“Present the responsible culprit,” the proxy spat through his grille, inviting no argument.

Instantly, Sym’ir included (in the interest in saving his own skin), all fingers indicated Fehram. Without hesitation, Khorase’vod clamped his sword to his belt and strode forward to drag the victim up by his gorget. Using his free hand, which was obscured by a rusted power fist, he crushed Fehram’s skull into a red paste with one smooth motion and tossed the corpse aside without a second thought.

“Eight-fifteen, nine-four, clean this mess with your tongues,” the proxy commanded, shaking flecks of gore from his energized fingers before folding his arms across his battered Mk. II breastplate.

Obediently, Vergerus and Sym’ir got on their knees and bent to lap the blood and slivers of bone off the grimy metal lattice. It took less than five seconds for their mouths to be cut to ribbons by the shards of skull, and after seven or eight minutes of licking the deck spotless Sym’ir couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this humiliated. He knew he’d endured worse after a standard year of brutal conditioning, four more of cruel combat training and exhausting schooling in sorcery and the catch-all surgery for his organ implantations. But in this moment, it all escaped him.

Climbing back to their feet when they’d finished, Sym’ir could feel Vergerus struggling just as much as he was against the urge to spit. Apparently, though, Khorase’vod was satisfied with the completion of the punishment, because he spun on his boot heel and left the mess. Once the proxy was gone, Sym’ir and Vergerus exchanged a glance and then plunged their fingers down their throats in unison. It wasn’t because they particularly wanted to lose their hard-earned meals, but rather an act of defiance against an officer they hated with every fibre of their beings.

It took Vergerus slightly longer to stop heaving than Sym’ir, and with another wordless look they made peace with each other, because they could certainly agree that the target of their anger should be Khorase’vod instead. Sym’ir wiped his mouth on the back of his armoured hand and watched as Vergerus turned to walk away, Luskar’s arm around the Khornate’s shoulders and the sides of their heads resting together. Making a face at the oddity of a Slaaneshi and a Khornate pairing, Sym’ir left in the opposite direction.

He returned to the Guild of Black Knowledge, a chamber with its inner dimensions greatly stretched by a common trick of sorcery. The walls were lined with shelves of books at least a hundred metres high, while the centre of the floor held dozens of tables and scores of chairs for young aspiring sorcerers to learn the theoretical aspects of bending the warp to their will.

Unsurprisingly, the only three other initiates who would become apprentices were here - Sym’ir had been the only one who’d eaten in the mess, and only because of Fehram. He supposed that was about to change.

 **+Look, the he-she recruit returns to us, brothers,+** Ankren sneered. **+I bet it’s done getting that Havoc to fuck it and now it’s back to pretending it has a cock like us.+**

There was a malicious chuckle from their auras, all in a matching hue that was yellow the colour of jaundice.

 **+Show us your cunt!+** Dregic howled, causing the other two to burst into laughter.

 **+It’s hiding teats as big as my fists under that armour,+** Sarrul sniggered, pegging the nearest tome in Sym’ir’s direction with a slight nod to the side.

Sym’ir’s ears burned and he stormed to the back of the room, waving several books down to a table in the far corner with angry jabs of his index fingers. Raising the mental barriers that a liaison officer named Vor Lekran had taught him, Sym’ir flipped open two of the books with a dismissive thought and stared at the nearest one absently. He wasn’t reading it at all, but rather stewing.

He’d had a complicated surgical procedure and undergone some form of sorcery five standard years ago, and especially after his gene-seed implantation had enhanced his healing capabilities it was impossible to tell by looking that he’d been born in the wrong body. Besides, they’d all been naked during many of Khorase’vod’s needless torture sessions, and the other three knew his body was visibly indistinguishable from theirs. Why did they see the point in provoking him? They were all Tzeentch initiates, all psychically sensitive and with high intelligence. They were all disgusted by Plague Marines, annoyed by Noise Marines and bewildered by the stupidity of Khorne Berzerkers. In practice, they were essentially identical without taking their personalities into account.

The thought infuriated him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Analogy for my fucking childhood.


	6. Propositions And Useless Plots

When Sym’ir woke up for training the next “day,” all he could think about was how much he despised the other initiate psykers. Honestly, it wasn’t any different from waking up for training on all the mornings before this.

As he slid on his grey body sleeve in preparation to don his unpainted power armour, Sym’ir couldn’t help but notice that one of the Slaaneshi initiates a few bunks down was constantly glancing his way. Unnerved, he glared harshly at the other marine as he clamped his breastplate around his torso and and clipped his belt shut. He returned to focusing on himself after that, mag-locking his combat blade to his leg and slipping his hands into his gauntlets.

As initiates, none of them were allowed to wear helmets, so Sym’ir had to keep a neutral expression on his medium-tan face while he lined up with the others to get inspected. Irritatingly, though, he could tell that the initiate from the cult of Slaanesh was still paying attention to him, even as all five subdivision commanders and the proxy entered the barracks to check them for errors. Kravos went first, then Andrios, Burax, Korlai and Gavyn followed. Finally Khorase’vod pawed them each over with his power fist before grunting what passed as his approval and herding them out of the barracks. At least there was only three days left until graduation, so they wouldn’t have to put up with this for much longer.

“Six-thirteen, nine-four, eleven, seven-two, eight-fifteen! Obstacle evaluation!” Khorase’vod screamed the second they set foot in the training hall.

Of _course_ he’d been chosen first, Sym’ir thought to himself with no small measure of annoyance. Initiating the quick-release on their power armour suits in unison, the five of them charged for the obstruction course. The slaves changed it every day prior to the upcoming training session, but by this point there was very little it offered that could surprise any of the initiates.

He crashed through the mesh of razor wire without a second thought, kicking a corrupted combat servitor aside with his right combat boot and diving for a tunnel lined in live electrical wires. The first time he’d run through such a barrier, the intermittent shocks had been painful to the point of stopping him in his tracks, but after four years he shrugged them off as though they were playful tickles. Emerging from the other side, a ceramite wall suddenly erected a metre before him, blocking his path. Most initiates leapt over, but he easily blasted it to atoms with a dismissive thought.

Sym’ir flipped, swung and jumped across the randomly-spaced bars and poles to navigate his way over a deep pit, landing expertly on all fours and practically running straight up the vertical shaft. Dodging and leaping from side to side as the means to avoid the throwing stars flying at him, Sym’ir slid through the gap in the next wall and off the side. He twisted in the air expertly to land on his feet.

Chains lashed out towards him from the walls of the narrow corridor, but he ignored the stinging barbs ripping his flesh and pressed on at full pelt. Sym’ir instinctively punched bolts of energy from his knuckles at the Space Marine effigies that popped out from the random slots in the wall, finally emerging from the obstruction course-

-to be faced by a plaguebearer lesser daemon of Nurgle.

“ _Akukuhle,_ ” was all he had time to whimper in his cult’s language before the thing came after him, swinging its rusted blade for his neck.

Though the daemon appeared weak and frail, Sym’ir knew from his studies that these creatures were nearly impervious to damage from conventional means. Distracted by this fact, he found himself more or less dancing around the chamber, trying to stall the daemon while he concocted a plan. Lacking mental fortitude at the moment, all he could do to defend himself was avoid the infectious weapon and obliterate the clouds of flies by pointing his fingers.

“ _Padîşah ji mirinê, ji te re bi diyariyên wî, sêrbaz, sixêfa ji Tzeentch lêxin,_ ” the plaguebearer droned, noxious fumes of decay streaming from its maw.

Sym’ir couldn’t pick up the individual words, but he certainly caught the gist of the meaning. Opening his fists, he made wide gestures around himself with his arms.

“ _Oletha izindlela ezishintshayo, iwavikele ifomu kwami kulesi ekufeni kwesabeka!_ ” he screamed, forcing back panic and enveloping himself in a bubble of sorcerous energy. The pestilent flies could not penetrate the translucent sphere, and so emboldened, Sym’ir thrust his open palms towards the Nurglite daemon: “ _Wena lutho, ukuncipha ukuze indawo yombuso wakho zezifo nokuhlupheka, uyisinengiso!_ ”

Channeling his psychic prowess through his arms, Sym’ir stared down the plaguebearer as it began to shrivel and didn’t dare turn away until it had fully vanished back into the Immaterium. Shivering with exhaustion, Sym’ir’s arms fell limp to his sides and he dropped to his knees as his protective aura dissolved as well. Such powerful sorcery for someone at a basic level like him was inordinately draining. Dripping with cold sweat under his shredded body sleeve, Sym’ir couldn’t hold himself upright even to this degree and slid down onto his side on the deck. Most embarrassingly, Khorase’vod entered the chamber at that moment, and the initiate couldn’t find the strength to snap to attention like he was supposed to. For this affront, he was hauled to his feet by his neck.

Wordlessly, the proxy dragged him into a different room, where three of the other four initiates were collapsed against the wall, looking just as beaten as he felt. However, they were physically drained where his exhaustion was mostly in his spirit. Sym’ir was tossed between Luskar and Dresh’ker, too tired even to roll his eyes at the fact that Luskar and Vergerus were leaning on each other for support. Interestingly, the Nurglite initiate who’d gone in at the same time did not emerge at all, and Khorase’vod wasted no time in beginning to verbally assault them once again.

“Most _unfortunately,_ ” the proxy spat, his voice sounding jagged and rusty through his Mk. II helm, “the four of you have succeeded. Your final trial will take place tomorrow. Now, meet Gavyn in the briefing chamber on the main deck.”

It took at least five minutes after the officer left before the four of them were able to stumble to their feet and limp away to the cargo lift, collecting their power armour on the way. Sym’ir braced himself into one of the rear corners to stay on his feet as they were raised from the training deck.

“Three days,” Dresh’ker, the Chaos Undivided initiate, was hissing under his breath, eyes closed. “Three days.”

“Assuming you graduate,” Vergerus sneered cynically, the first one to regain a steady breathing pattern. As always, he was ready to extend an angry put-down to anyone nearby.

“Sorcerer,” Luskar implored after reprimanding his significant other with a light smack upside the head, “we have a proposition for you.”

Interestingly, the Slaaneshi initiate was somehow shielding himself from psychic probing. Sym’ir cocked his head to one side, immediately suspicious of the other marine’s motives.

“Define ‘we,’” he hissed.

“Us three,” Vergerus grunted, making an almost noncommittal gesture to indicate everyone in the lift. “And some others.”

“A less liberal definition, please.” Sym’ir rolled his eyes.

“Some of my fellows and a few of his,” Luskar answered. “And even a couple of Havocs want in, which is where Dresh’ker serves as our point of contact.”

“Why would Havocs want anything to do with us?”

Dresh’ker straightened up, and insofar as it was possible in his battle plate he swelled with pride.

“My brothers,” the Chaos Undivided initiate grinned. “All three of them got initiated before me, one is about to graduate to Plague Marine, a lot this plan was his idea. Kradjic is brilliant-”

“Get to the point,” Sym’ir snapped, growing impatient.

“Those other three initiates need to die,” Vergerus spat. “Your little cohorts… they make my teeth itch.”

“And I don’t?” Sym’ir snorted. “Besides, you’re a Khornate, you could just hack them to pieces…”

Vergerus gave a hostile snarl, but Luskar held him back.

“They’re powerful enough to stop him,” the Slaaneshi marine pointed out. The lift opened to the main deck and the four of them walked out, still talking as they moved. “And to get rid of them we’d need someone more powerful… that’s where you come in. And it helps that you’re not as full of yourself as they are, despite your… chosen cult.”

Sym’ir hissed.

“Don’t attempt to bait me, I’m not stupid.”

“I’m not baiting you,” Luskar replied smoothly, shaking his head. “As I said, it’s a proposition. Those other three initiates in your cult who are set to become apprentices are… less than ideal.”

“I fail to see the benefit in my favor of your plotting,” Sym’ir frowned, “and for that matter, for all your scheming you should be in _my_ cult, not roving with that band of disgusting hedonists…”

Luskar gave a slow, unpleasant smile.

“Ah, so you _enjoy_ being called a girl by the others…”

With an angry scowl, Sym’ir instinctively jabbed a finger at Luskar and sent the initiate Noise Marine flying backwards into the still-open lift. Before Luskar even hit, Vergerus was bowling Sym’ir over with an enraged roar, dark brown eyes ablaze with hate. Sym’ir could also feel a headache pounding inside the former Ultramarine’s skull. There was something burrowed into Vergerus’ brain, pulsing under his haphazardly-cut black hair. Something poisoning him.

“Bugger off, loyalist,” Sym’ir snarled, throwing Vergerus off and leaping to his feet. He snatched his combat blade off his hip and clenched it in his fist. “Your lover’s useless little plots mean nothing to me…”

In spite of this altercation, Luskar and Dresh’ker both sprang onto Vergerus’ back and dragged him to the floor, holding him against the deck while he struggled.

“Believe me, Sym’ir,” Luskar insisted, narrowing his eyes, “you’re much better served working with us than against us. If you do not aid us in our plight, then we’ll simply have to take you down with the other three.”

“Now that I know you’re up to something, no less,” Sym’ir sneered.

“Did we mention they’ll be dead before they graduate?” Dresh’ker asked with a raised eyebrow.

At this, Sym’ir couldn’t help the malicious smile that began to slowly infect his visage.


	7. The Congregants' Motives

“Are we sufficiently isolated?” Kradjic burbled quietly.

Sym’ir nodded: “I sense no other presences, discounting the daemon-spirits enslaved to the vehicles.”

They were congregated in the armour bay, in the farmost corner where a Predator was awaiting repairs. Kradjic, Vert’z, De’krabb and Grozm were the only four Havocs present - the rest of them were initiates. Sym’ir was the only member of the Tzeentch cult in the group.

“Remember,” Vergerus growled to his Havoc counterpart, “you are to speak under no circumstances. Your obnoxious volume could alert others to our location.”

Grozm nodded enthusiastically, as always with an expression of blank happiness that only the cripplingly stupid could wear. By all accounts, the Khornate Havoc had the third-lowest IQ in the warband.

“So we’re all in agreement,” Luskar began, “no good can possibly result from those three surviving to graduation.”

The grunts and murmurs throughout the group affirmed his statement.

“Again, I must question your motives,” Sym’ir addressed them. “None of you have a personal stake in this aside from me… excepting perhaps Kradjic. And by that logic, he should be opposed to working with me.”

Kradjic shrugged, but it was his younger brother Dresh’ker who answered: “They directly interfere with our lives, De’krabb wears an augmetic foot after they cut his off for use in a ritual.”

“I see,” Sym’ir frowned after a moment. “I know they give you three headaches,” he gestured to Grozm, Vergerus and Sazhix, “so what of you?” He pointed to Luskar and his cohorts.

“The experience,” Luskar smiled, his eyes narrowed. “It’s in our nature. It should be a quite fascinating and enjoyable conflict.”

Sym’ir supposed he should have guessed this on his own and rolled his eyes, but he detected no hint of deceit in the minds of his fellows. Eventually he nodded.

“Ankren, Dregic and Sarrul all have individual schedules. Dregic and Sarrul will meet together after Khorase’vod is done with us in the mornings, but while the rest of us are consuming lunch they separate. Dregic often goes alone to the summoning deck to study daemonmancy with Gadrich and Sarrul spends the rest of the day in the Guild of Black Knowledge reading several books at once.”

“And Ankren?” Ga’fir, a Slaaneshi initiate, queried.

“He shall prove the most problematic to kill. He frequently resides in the Seer's Chamber, which is protected by sorcery that kills all non-Tzeentchians who attempt to make entry. Unless it is one of the rare days when he chooses to study in the Guild, we shall have to lure him out somehow. I would not risk confronting him alone.”

“Cowardly,” Vergerus spat, the thin black veins pulsing under his translucent skin as he said the word.

Sym’ir scowled: “No, it would be foolhardy for me to attempt it, especially since you shall need me to overcome him. My psychic prowess is stronger, but much more unpredictable. He has greater control over his abilities and has also been in training for longer.”

Vert’z nodded: “Very well. Kradjic and I shall-”

“That won’t work.” Sym’ir shook his head. “Ankren has many undesirable qualities, but stupidity is not one of them. If I gather slaves as a blood sacrifice coven, I may be able to manipulate him. Blinding him to our presence, we can lead him right into Vergerus’ and Grozm’s clutches.”

“Failing that?” Luskar implored. “Should you be experiencing one of your less stable days.”

“I shall use myself as bait, I suppose… if I can badger him enough and get him angry, I should be able to get him to follow me right into an ambush. In any case, Ankren must be the first one we kill. Sarrul and Dregic often take direction from him, and shall be more vulnerable in that case.”

This said, the fourteen of them bickered for another hour and a half as they worked out the fine details of their plan. Once they’d reached an agreement, they left the armour bay and made their way to their attack positions.


	8. The Changer Of Ways

As Sym’ir was making his way towards the Seer’s Chamber, he came across Vor Lekran in one of the corridors. Though not technically a psyker, Vor Lekran did have the unnatural ability to sense other marines’ emotions to an extent. Sym’ir quickly tried to raise his mental barriers, but it was too late. The XVII Legionary gave him a cold smile.

“Sir?” Sym’ir asked, stopping in his tracks and offering a puzzled expression.

Vor Lekran shook his head slowly, still bearing the same unnerving look: “Seek to understand yourself as a member of the Changer of Ways, initiate. For the ways change in all things.”

With that the Word Bearer left him, dark red boots clunking across the metal grating. Sym’ir’s eyes followed him down the corridor until he disappeared around a distant bend, and then the young Chaos Marine began moving again, heading for the Seer’s Chamber. Luskar and his fellows had taken Dregic as their target, while Dresh’ker and his three brothers went after Sarrul. That left Sym’ir and the three Khornates to attack Ankren, as they were the ones with the greatest chance of success against him. Of course, it made Sym’ir feel rather uneasy, as it was equally likely that the Berzerkers would give in to their bloodlust and kill  _ him _ rather than their intended target.

Growling to himself, he met silently with the small cadre of Khornates and turned to face Vergerus:  **+Await my signal.+** Blood began leaking from their eyes, and they hissed in pain as his thoughts pierced their simplistic minds.  **+Are you able to do that, or must I drag you in with sorcery when I need you?+**

Vergerus sneered at him, which was all the indication he needed that yes, they could oblige this basic order. They hefted their axes and trembled at the anticipation of bloodshed, but Vergerus’ own stubbornness held them fast as Sym’ir slipped away again. Clenching his jaw as he raised the mental blocks he’d nearly perfected, he strode into the Seer’s Chamber projecting a false air of arrogance similar to Ankren’s own.

**+Ah, so it is Tzeentch’s little experiment,+** Ankren spat, not even turning to face him from where he knelt in prayer before the statue of Magnus.  **+Think not that I’ve been blind to your little escapade, you genderless freak. I am a far more powerful student than you could ever hope to become.+**

Sym’ir had thought about how he would handle this conversation prior to arriving here, all the hateful things he could spit at his rival, but now he lost words and simply attacked without any pleasantries. Twisting his arms and hands in a complex and specific pattern, he sent Ankren flying across the circle and crashing into the idol of Kairos Fateweaver. Drawing strength from the Immaterium, he clenched his hands into fists and instantly crushed Ankren’s unpainted power armour into his body.

But the other Chaos Marine wouldn’t be so easily subdued. As always with a much more stable mind, Ankren psychically ripped both of them into the warp, dragging their spirits through the aetheric barrier as a skinned body would become further shredded on a field of jagged stones. Already bleeding spiritual energy, Sym’ir wrested a single instant of clarity for himself to alert the Berzerkers before he was engulfed fully in the mind-war.

He could feel his own mass swirling around him, mixing with and being rejected by the pure waves of emotion in equal measure. He was glowing, crimson and golden with his fury and righteous hate of the other warrior, who conversely was a static form of chartreuse spite and blinding orange glee. But of course Sym’ir could still use this as leverage. His anger was calculated, intelligent. Ankren’s wrath had always been more instinctual once it had been roused.

**+You are a lie,+** Sym’ir breathed heavily, gripping his enemy in an expanse of tentacles.  **+Your stasis rejects the very** **_essence_ ** **of the Master of Fate.** **_I_ ** **show his true nature. Yield to me, or be obliterated.+** Anrken only roared in response, digging black claws made from kindled rage into Sym’ir’s corporeal form. But he was unbowed, anticipating such a response, and simply used the blow to suck his prey inwards and begin to entrap him.  **+Give in… to allow your destruction is to be granted a more merciful end.+**

He could feel Ankren’s implacable unwillingness to surrender, but also that he was haemorrhaging in both the aetheric and material realms. Vergerus must already be ripping him to pieces.

With this thought, Sym’ir gathered himself and with a surge of effort sent them spinning back into reality, both collapsed onto the floor. Blood leaked from every opening in his skull, but he paid it no mind when he sat up and saw the Berzerkers already carving up the other initiate for later consumption, tearing dismembered limbs from the armour pieces that Sym’ir had ruined. He climbed to his feet and simply watched with indescribable satisfaction as his enemy was eaten alive by the Khornate Chaos Space Marines.

This made it all the more horrifying as he found himself crumpling to his knees, screaming in agony and feeling his body twisting itself inside out.


	9. The Ten Thousand Futures

Two amber eyes opened inside a pale grey face, smiling though the rest of the expression remained blank. The warrior had easily returned from his deep meditative state, through ten millennia of mental conditioning and prayer. He met the gaze of the other corrupted being who knelt before him with a bowed head.

“My lord, it is done.”

Vor Lekran allowed a true smile, now, rising to his feet and feeling his ancient habit swaying across his body with the motion.

“I detected the occurrence in the tides of the warp. You have enacted your role beautifully, initiate.” The liaison officer dipped his left thumb into a basin of Furies’ blood and washed a basic rendition of the eight-fold star across Luskar’s forehead. “This day, the Ten Thousand Futures have been set in motion with events to favour both your warband and my Legion. Should you live to witness its unfolding, it shall be revealed to you what part you played here today.”

Vor Lekran motioned for Luskar to stand as well, and the ignorant pawn obeyed. They left the chamber and began making slow strides towards the briefing chamber. The initiates, Luskar included, would graduate to become Havocs in slightly more than two hours.

“My lord, may I ask why this was… well, necessary? And why so many others had to become involved?”

“Alas, your knowledge of the Empyrean is in its infancy. Should I describe it even in the simplest of terms, the concept would be lost on you. Suffice to say, it was a necessary step.”

Vor Lekran savored the taste of the lie he spun for the young Noise Marine. The Word Bearers and the Apostles of Death had long been close allies to each other in the struggle to dethrone the False Emperor, but certainly the XVII Legion did not want their less tempered cousins to gain any sort of advantage. Sym’ir had been far too powerful for Vor Lekran’s taste, and would have developed into a nigh-invulnerable sorcerer given the chance, perhaps rivaling even one of the Thousand Sons.

He paused at a T-junction in the corridor, waiting patiently as Luskar disappeared around the left bend for a brief moment and returning with a thick black chain in hand. Sym’ir the Tzeentch Chaos Spawn was tethered to the other end of it, a slavering abomination of dripping scales, misshapen flesh and clusters of teeth and dull spines. Parts of his armour were still visibly protruding at odd angles, the left vent of the power pack sticking up from a front leg and a knee pad at the creature’s mid back.

Taking the chain for himself, Vor Lekran ushered Luskar onward, knowing an important goal had been achieved towards the Word Bearers’ ultimate victory.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote a huge in-depth article on the 40K Fanon Wiki about the Apostles of Death, who are also my miniature army for the game. All sorts of weirdness can be found here:
> 
> http://warhammer40kfanon.wikia.com/wiki/Apostles_of_Death


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